by Liz Maverick
Rothgar’s eyebrow arched. “It’s not like you to lose your cool. You’re no hothead.”
I didn’t used to be. But something inside Nick was so damn restless . . . he wasn’t himself. “He pushed one of my buttons, pulled a trigger, I don’t know, I just . . .” Nick passed a hand over his face, suddenly so tired.
“What did he say to you, Nick?” Rothgar pushed.
Nick could hear the Russian’s thick accent in his head. “Is all you do, Nikolai . . .” He looked at Rothgar, square. “It’s not important. It’s stupid, really. But he got me off balance, and I bit back.” Nick thought that if he said the words out loud, he might just explode. “Is all you do, Nikolai? Pushing paper, pushing big ‘Enter’ button on keyboard. You must have very big muscles in pinkie finger. You big, rich, important man. The financier. Mamochka must be so proud. Maybe I pay you too much. Didn’t take much to lift so much money. Just sweet little pinkie finger . . .”
How was he going to explain it? Ego mixed with a sea change that had been creeping up on him over the years about what defined a successful life. Something dark, getting darker, feeling lost, at sixes and sevens, trying to understand why, after all he’d managed to make of himself, it hadn’t made him happy. He missed Jemilla’s compass. He missed having something to live up to. He missed having someone who made things matter.
“Mamochka” would not be so proud, and all those long years on Wall Street with the blow and the stripper parties, making so much cash it fell around him like water, and even after joining the Hudson Kings, trying to feel like what he did was worth something, like he made a real, tactile contribution to the team . . . how did a random Russian criminal know to call him on exactly what he was trying not to be?
“I asked how’d you bite?” Rothgar said as if it weren’t the first time he’d asked.
“I did what I do best,” Nick said bitterly. “I hid the money we’d just lifted.”
“How much?”
“Twenty million dollars.”
Rothgar went silent for a moment. “And then?”
“And then I moved it back. I was just trying to make a point. But he said it wasn’t there.”
“What? He claims you didn’t put it back?”
“Yup. Sokolov is accusing me of stealing twenty million dollars. Thing is, I have no idea where it went. It was there. And then he banged on my computer, and the page reloaded, and then it wasn’t there. It was either a setup or the world’s unluckiest computer glitch.”
Rothgar had that stormy look on his face. “And then?”
“And then I went home and fed my fish.” After I came to at Maksim’s place, courtesy of a sharp slap to my face. It was not necessarily a good sign that Sokolov hadn’t completely beaten the tar out of him.
“And then?”
“And then he sent a message telling me that I was a white-collar pussy who couldn’t survive a month out there with him breathing down my back, and that I’d better find the money because he’d be in touch, and not in a gentle way.”
“When was this?” Rothgar asked.
“Right around the time Shane brought Cecily in, and things got crazy on that score.”
“And then?”
“And then the Hudson Kings blew Anya’s cover and got her deported to Russia, and Sokolov went silent for a sec while he was dealing with that. And now he’s on my back again,” Nick said.
“That it?”
“No. He didn’t pay the other guys. Said he’d pay them when I learned my lesson. So I’ve got some disgruntled freelance pals.”
“Who?”
Nick hesitated. “Maksim, Lawrence, and that guy Tristan, who works for O’Neill, that we almost hired instead of Dex.”
“So, in addition to pissing off the powerful boyfriend of a Russian agent the Hudson Kings just got deported, you managed to piss off another lone-wolf Russian merc, someone I’ve recently been considering for the team, and a Sixth Ward rookie.”
Nick half expected Roth to add a very sarcastic “Nice work,” but the boss man didn’t. Instead, he said, “You could pay them from your own pocket, but I can see how that doesn’t fix his reputation, among other things.”
“Geo clued me in that word on the street says Sokolov threatened them should they accept money from me before he gets his full amount back.”
“Do you have twenty million dollars to spare?” Rothgar asked.
“I didn’t keep his money, Roth. In ten seconds, I turned into a fall guy for something I didn’t do. It was ten seconds before I moved it back in front of Sokolov’s face, and then it was gone. Even if I gave Sokolov another twenty mil, he’s going to teach me a lesson for stealing from him in the first place. That’s what this is. He wants his money back, yeah, but he’s going to teach me a lesson because he can’t have everyone thinking he’s easy on this kind of shit.”
“How do you know Sokolov’s on your back again since we took down Anya?”
“I can feel it. Stuff like, a couple of times, I could tell I was being followed. Hang-ups on my phone. It’s like he’s putting me on notice. So I moved in here. Didn’t figure it would be this long. Now I’m going to make it official, get someone to take care of my place so I’m not worrying about whether or not I can get the concierge to remember to come up and feed my damn fish, dig in here, and solve this problem. When I’m not working on Hudson Kings business, I’ll be focusing on fixing this mess, and—”
“Fuck, Nick.”
Nick looked up at Rothgar, the closest thing he’d ever had to a father figure. Hard to tell what Roth was thinking. Disgust, most likely. Nick practiced a slow exhale, but it helped not at all.
“I’m going to be very clear here,” Rothgar said. “I get that I’ve said that the brothers can keep their cards close when it comes to personal missions. But, this was an active mission. The crossover between who you were working with on your own and what transpired with us nailing Cecily’s ex-boyfriend along with Anya became extreme, and that’s when you should have told me.”
Rothgar shook his head. “Either one of the missions could have gone seriously ugly if he put the pieces together.”
I know, Nick was tempted to say. That’s the point.
“Think about how dangerous it would be if he knew—or even suspected—not just that you used intel you got on a freelance mission with him to take back to the Hudson Kings team, but that it was used against him by bringing down a loved one. I’m not the softest guy, but even I know Sokolov would consider that a crossed line. I’m going to say this only once: if you ever hold back on this level of shit again, you’re off the team. You’re as much my brother as you ever were, but I won’t hesitate to drop you if I can’t trust you to level with me on something this intense.”
Nick inwardly flinched. There was nobody alive he respected more than Rothgar. And nobody alive he cared about more than his brothers on the team. Roth would never guess how deeply the thought of losing this family would cut Nick.
“Even if you think you’re helping the team by keeping silent about something, I’m the one person you’ve got to tell. Consider yourself on probation.”
Keeping his voice even so Rothgar wouldn’t know he was gutted, Nick said, “That’s fair.”
“That bullshit aside, let’s put a plan together, and—”
“Still just me, Roth.”
Rothgar narrowed his eyes.
“My fuckup, my fix,” Nick said.
“Nick,” Rothgar said. Just his name, all weighed down with the same deadly combination of pity and disgust Nick had already been beating himself up with since the heist. And then Roth couldn’t even finish his thought, like it was too fucking embarrassing to say out loud. Which it was. Instead, the boss shook his head and looked away. A disappointment.
Nick released the breath he suddenly realized he’d been holding.
Rothgar’s gaze swung back. “You do understand that the team has your—”
“They have my back? Yeah. I get that,” Nick said. “I g
et that I’m the guy sitting on my ass pressing the ‘Enter’ key. And sometimes, when you all really feel secure, I’m the guy who gets to go outside and walk a memory stick from one end of the block to another. Why do you think I make myself available for missions when I don’t need the money? Of course, I was led to believe I was going to partner up with Maksim and do Lawrence’s part in the field . . .”
Rothgar tipped his head, studying Nick’s face. “You’re goddamn brilliant, Nick. I choose specialists who are the best at what they do. And, yeah, I chose you to move money through your network, to work out the details of any necessary financial arrangements behind the scenes, to stay tight with important connections in the money world the rest of us don’t know. These aren’t things that just anyone can do, and they’re what I need you for. You’ve got people around who care about you, here and outside,” Rothgar said.
Well, here. His “friends” in the financial world were just people he pretended with. They pretended, he pretended, everybody spent a lot of money on toys and women and made a lot of noise and smiled big and partied hard, and they probably all flipped a switch the minute they went home.
Nick thought about how many times he sat in the back of a cab silent and motionless and empty, about two seconds after laughing his head off and boozing around with his Lower Manhattan pals, thinking, I need to feel something more than this.
“You feel like you want to throw some punches, go to the gym. Don’t let your anger fuck up your missions, for me or anybody else.”
“Roth, listen. I’m sorry I screwed up. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my gig with Sokolov when the team was going after his girlfriend. Maybe if I figure out who did hijack the money, I can fix this.”
Roth’s expression was unreadable.
“Was there anything else?” Nick asked.
“You have what you need to disappear?” Rothgar asked.
Nick blinked. “In my safety-deposit box.”
“Do me a favor and take it out of the box so it’s on hand. You can leave it with Missy.”
That was not exactly a vote of confidence. “I don’t think it’s come to that.”
“You won’t turn your situation over to me. I don’t like it, but I have to live with it,” Rothgar said. “But I’m asking you to get your Plan B ready, Nick. Do me a favor and empty your box, yeah?”
“Will do, Roth.” Nick even managed a small smile; nothing said “I care” like Rothgar telling you to get your fake IDs lined up so you’d at least be ready to run.
The boss was still studying his face, and Nick really needed this conversation to be over. “We done?” he asked, even as he got up and headed for the exit.
“You got somewhere important to be?” Rothgar said. “More important than this shit?”
“I’ve got to go hire someone to feed the fish,” Nick said, looking back with his hand on the door.
Rothgar finally, blessedly turned away and picked up his work. “I hope that’s a euphemism for something,” he muttered.
CHAPTER 3
Jane had some regrets about trying to appear entirely forgettable, which manifested most strongly right outside an Italian joint called Bianchi’s, where she was supposed to interview with Nick Dawes. She’d been caught in the rain without an umbrella, which probably did not project responsibility and whatever else it was you needed to convince someone that you were not going to let their fish die or set their penthouse on fire while they’re away. That said, the error did result in making her look mousier than she was even going for. Wet hair that was probably alternating between extreme frizz and soaked, no makeup, boring clothes (well, clothes with at least two fewer colors than usual). I am the epitome of the unobtrusive fish feeder you are looking to hire, Mr. Dawes.
She entered the front door, shucked her raincoat off, shook the water out of her hair, and then tried to tame it with a rubber band. After stating her name, she was whisked through the restaurant by a buxom brunette with a classic New York accent, who escorted her to a private room that looked equally appropriate for hosting children’s birthday parties and bloody disagreements between Mafiosi.
And within seconds she was sitting across from a guy who seriously looked like he walked off the movie screen just in time to show up for dinner in Jane’s life. What was it Cecily always said about Shane and his friends? Extremely large, superhot. Check aaaaaand check.
Objectively speaking, by pretty much any measuring system, Mr. Dawes was even hotter than Shane Sullivan, Cecily’s man. Which was a high bar. A really high bar, since Shane could probably set a T-shirt on fire just by putting it over his head.
Mr. Dawes was wearing a suit and tie plus a crisp white dress shirt sporting French cuffs that flipped back far enough to reveal a gold watch clamped around his muscular, corded wrist. He was sleek, but he was somehow saved from looking just too smooth thanks to an unruly lock of dark-brown hair that fell into his gunmetal-blue eyes.
In short, he looked very, very expensive. He was actually beautiful. Like, too beautiful to be having an entire dinner with a stupid, boring girl just to see if she was an appropriate candidate to feed his fish, which raised a lot of questions. The same questions that Ally and Cecily either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. Of course, she was going to be living in his house, with his stuff, so on second thought, Jane figured it was only right that he spend some time making sure she wouldn’t abscond with his belongings.
He was pretty quiet at first, studying her studying him. The only chip in the mold of this exceptionally beautiful statue came from inside; the set of his mouth and the look in his eyes made Nick Dawes look tired. On edge. And like he didn’t want to be here.
The waitress had first served Mr. Dawes a martini (Jane had turned down the offer of something other than water) and put down a giant bowl of salad and a massive platter of ravioli. As she doled out two servings, Jane couldn’t help but wonder if he chose ravioli so that noodles wouldn’t spatter his pricey clothes.
Jane made a choice. This was good food, and she wasn’t going to waste it. Besides, if she talked, he might discover she wasn’t the moron he was looking for, and she’d tank the interview. So she tucked into her food and waited for him to ask a question.
“Tell me about yourself,” Mr. Dawes finally said.
“Well, what would you like to know about me?”
“Just start talking, I’ll tell you when to stop.”
Jane blinked. “Er, should I start with my background?” I have seen things and lived through things you wouldn’t believe. Should I tell you about the time my parents asked a motorcycle gang to babysit me while they went to hustle pool? Yeah, no.
Nick Dawes slid the first martini olive off the toothpick with his teeth. She noticed he had rather pronounced canine teeth; they gave his pretty-boy looks a little edge and made her want to order a family-size jar of olives and a fresh box of toothpicks and just say, “Go.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He seemed bored. Good news, since he’d specified boring. Bad news, since she wasn’t actually trying. “I had you vetted. I just need to take your measure in person.”
How about you take my measurements instead? Just put one hand right on my—
“You’re an artist, like Cecily.” He looked down then, like he was matching her clothes to the idea of her as an artist. There was probably a reasonably strong correlation, given that she had on a navy-and-aqua striped riff on the Breton look; the stripes were paint lines, and the neck was wide enough for one shoulder to do a modified Flashdance slip.
“Actually, no,” Jane said. “Cecily’s a smart artist; she’s a graphic designer who helps build websites. I’m an idiot. I hand draw flourishes for the insides of self-help books and the like.”
“Flourishes.”
“Yes.” Jane made a swooshing gesture in the air. “Here.” She pulled one of her promo pieces out of her purse and handed it to him.
“That’s a living?” he asked.
“Well, as it turns out, no,” she
said. “One of us makes money; the other doesn’t. So, for the last year I worked as an assistant office manager at a website marketing company.”
Mr. Dawes blinked, showing no signs of humor. He stared down at the heart-shaped plastic letter opener in his hand imprinted with Jane’s name and calligraphy-style logo.
“In case you’re in the market for flourishes,” Jane said. She thought he looked slightly pained. Truth be told, it did have a whiff of desperation about it. Well, screw you, Moneybags.
“If you slide that bit there, there’s even a tiny mirror too,” she said, and added, keeping a straight face, “in case you need to floss.”
Mr. Dawes didn’t move, so Jane reached over and pointed at the plastic lump that opened to reveal a barely usable mirror. Their fingers touched, so she didn’t finish taking it out. Still keeping her expression completely serious, she persevered with, “It comes out. You can look at yourself all day.”
He looked at her sharply. “And this gets people to buy your flourishing services?”
“People like getting things that are heart shaped. Even if they don’t know it, it brings them joy. Then they’ll associate positive feelings with me. So, I like to think of it as a long-term investment.” Jane softened her face and let him off the hook. “You can give it back. I won’t be offended.”
Mr. Dawes studied her face and then pocketed the stupid letter opener. He was looking at her like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. It is extremely disturbing to discover that I’m so talented at being unappealing, Jane thought. She suddenly wished she’d remembered an umbrella or at least put on mascara.
“Why did you stop being an office manager?” Mr. Dawes asked.